


Nim's Game

by pierrot_dreams



Series: Nim's Game [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Fiction, Secret Identity, Secret Organizations, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pierrot_dreams/pseuds/pierrot_dreams
Summary: After exhausting the patience of his boss, his team, and his ex-girlfriend, Agent John Avery has been given one last chance to redeem himself. Sent to Amsterdam to steal back a world-ending weapon, he's assigned to work with the enigmatic operative Simon Segir. As the mission becomes increasingly dangerous, Avery begins to suspect that Simon is not who—or what—he seems.
Series: Nim's Game [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674781
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took a break from TGB and this story jumped up and bit me. It’s also a WIP, but, like TGB, a multibook project thoroughly outlined from beginning to end.
> 
> This chapter contains racism, Anglocentric snobbery (note: I am not British), and descriptions of Amsterdam that are doubtless grossly inaccurate given that I have been there exactly once, on vacation, and remember very little. Also, all my information about spycraft comes from major fictional franchises and the slash thereof. Read for entertainment, not accuracy.

John Avery arrived at the Hotel Florijn at ten o’clock in the evening with a reinforced aluminum suitcase and a headache. He was greeted in the charmingly shabby chess marble foyer by the proprietress, Mw. Niemantsverdriet, who shuffled yawning from the shadows and tried to wrestle his suitcase from him.

“I can carry it, thank you,” said Avery, in firm (if merely passable) Dutch.

Mw. Niemantsverdriet waved a crabbed hand and muttered something too quick for him to catch. Avery was interested to see that her palms were cleft to the wrist, with two stubby fingers on each fork.

Avery followed the old woman up a staircase that wound around and around like the coil of a nautilus shell. His headache intensified as they climbed. By the time they reached the top floor, a series of small detonations seemed to be taking place within the chamber of his skull.

“Your rooms,” said Mw. Niemantsverdriet, in English appreciably worse than Avery’s Dutch. He got the impression that she was making some sort of point. 

Flipping on a series of cracked or flickering bulbs illuminated a spare apartment with a kitchenette. In the bedroom, Avery found a murphy bed anchored to a bookshelf empty of books but replete with the corpses of spiders in various stages of decay. When he touched one with his fingertip, it dissolved into dust.

Avery abhorred travelling in anything but a suit unless he was on an assignment which required a greater degree of sartorial discretion, but even the best-cut cashmere began to feel like a straightjacket entering the—he checked his watch— _twentieth_ hour of wear. It gave him almost sexual pleasure to peel off his clothes and sink into a steaming bath. 

Avery slid under the surface, letting the water close over his face. His headache thumped distantly. He opened his eyes. The cracks in the ceiling rippled over him. Avery had the curious sensation that there was something inside, trying to claw its way out.

He really did need to sleep.

A wash of radium green flickered over the ceiling. Avery’s groan thrummed underwater. He flexed his heels against the tub, pushing himself up the porcelain side. His watch lay on the washstand; above the dial floated the impassive face of Blessing Kebede. 

“Good evening, Agent,” she said.

“Good evening, Leader,” said Avery, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “I take it that I won’t be settling my brain for a long winter’s nap?”

Blessing looked mildly scandalized by the idea.

“Sato wants us to hit the ground running.”

Of course Sato did.

Avery hauled himself out of the bath, snatching his towel from the rack. (He did not, as a rule, use hotel towels.) He dried off and shrugged on his robe. It was silk, and tailored, and had seemed like a better idea fifteen hours ago, when Avery was still optimistic enough to think that someone might have the opportunity to admire him in it.

Avery checked his face in the mirror. His eyes were sunk in gray pouches. The fuzz of a beard incommoded his jaw. He decided against shaving. With the five o’clock shadow, he might be a lad too long on the town; without it, he would look like a man tapering off some very strong medication.

Blessing had cut the connection when Avery emerged from the bath. Still, he picked up the watch more gingerly than usual. He was aware, naturally, of being monitored, but by now the constant surveillance had become quotidian; he only minded when reminded. And Blessing manifesting like the great green head of the Wizard of Oz had reminded him.

In the bedroom, his suitcase awaited. Avery had already hung his clothes and folded his underwear into the top drawer of the splintered dresser, so access to the suitcase’s false bottom was unimpeded. He turned the minute numbered wheels embedded in its side until the digits aligned, then unsnapped the second lid and pushed it up. 

Within, a hoard of machinery whirred busily to itself. Avery lifted out the dense slab of his laptop and attached his watch to the port on its side. The screen flickered to life. He input a secondary code, then submitted to a retinal scan, which made his eyeball feel uncomfortably hot. He held his thumb against the touchpad, which registered both his print and the presence of a pulse. This ensured that his thumb could not be cut off and used to open the laptop absent the rest of him. 

(When first informed of this feature, Avery had disappointed the technician by failing to look reassured. He had not, then, been used to the idea that people might want to cut off bits of him. He was used to it now.)

Security measures complete, Avery could dial in to Office—which he did, dutifully, and feeling rather that someone ought to congratulate him for how dutiful he was being.

Third Technician Cricket Tuhaka filled the screen like a cheery balloon.

“Hullo, Avery—Agent, I mean,” she yawned, round chin propped in her palm. “You’ll be wanting Leader? Just a mo’, she’s getting coffee.”

 _Coffee._ Oh, Avery _yearned_. When Blessing slid into view holding a steaming mug, he actually leaned forward to inhale, as though the scent might be carried across the continent on pixels.

“It’s only an hour later there than it is here, you know,” said Blessing, taking a sadistically involved sip. “I, for one, am feeling quite fresh.”

 _Here_ was Base, which was in Bristol, or, more accurately, a no-go zone just outside of Bristol which had been created by cunning manipulation of the highway system. It was from Base that Avery had been dispatched—or, more accurately, ejected—by Deputy Director Sato five hours previous, and it was Base to which he now desperately wished to return.

Blessing knew all of this, of course. She was not, in the ordinary way of things, a bitch. Exacting in her standards, yes; brusque to the point of rudeness, often. But she was making it perfectly clear that Avery was to blame for the fact that the team was still at Office instead of enjoying their much-anticipated two weeks of post-mission leave. Avery therefore deserved to be summoned from his bath for a briefing that could have very well waited until tomorrow morning.

“Your name, Agent?” Blessing prompted.

“Ronald Jebran,” said Avery, dredging his legend from memory. “Lately of London, originally from Kensington by way of Beirut. Educated at Eton and Christ’s College; now Senior Manager of Operations at the Beasley International Paper Conglomerate. Question about that fun little detail: am I right in thinking that Beasley makes toilet tissue?”

There was snickering in the control room.

“I was also interested to see that Ronald is recovering from a rather stormy breakup,” Avery went on. “With a Frenchwoman. A coworker. Who has just announced her engagement to another man.”

More snickering. 

“Yes, well done, team,” said Avery sourly. “BAFTA-winning stuff. I commend your creativity.”

“The more familiar the details, the easier the cover will be to assume,” said Blessing. “Why are you in Amsterdam, Mr. Jebran?”

“To drown bitter memory in drink and dissipation,” said Avery. “The Rijksmuseum by day; club drugs and _de Rosse Buurt_ by night. I don’t actually have to sleep with a prostitute, do I?” he added. “Only I don’t think Ronald’s recovery will be helped by contracting an antibiotic-resistant strain of syphilis.”

Oggie Allen appeared behind Blessing, drinking one of his vile swamp-colored smoothies.

“Leader, please tell Agent not to insult the fine working women of Amsterdam,” said Oggie, his nasal California accent even more grating than usual. “Also, if Agent gets to spend Company funds on a hooker after ruining our leave, I’m going back to the CIA.”

“They wouldn’t have you,” Avery half-shouted, at the same time Blessing said coolly, “As you know, First Technician, Agent has total discretion over mission-related expenditures. As long as he can defend those expenditures to the Deputy Director, of course.”

Being called in front of Sato to explain a brothel bill was certainly a scrotum-withering prospect. Avery winced and recrossed his legs.

“You’ll make contact with the asset at Café Ondervinden off the Rembrandtplein,” Blessing continued. “He’s been informed that the original Agent was replaced, but he won’t know what you look like. In your wallet is a business card. Give it to him. It will serve as proof of affiliation.”

“Proof of affiliation,” Avery murmured, checking his wallet. Along with various IDs in Jebran’s name and several thousand crisply printed Euros was a cream-colored business card spelled in a neat, discreet typeface.

“ _Very_ swank, Leader,” said Avery, removing the business card and holding it up to the light. He could just make out the shadow of the RFID chip implanted in the lefthand corner. “Is that font Trajan?”

“The rendezvous point was chosen by the asset,” said Blessing, ignoring him, “so be alert to any unpleasant surprises.”

“Do we not trust this—” Avery checked the mission brief—“Simon Segir?”

“He came highly recommended by British intelligence,” said Blessing, her tone communicating in precisely what esteem she held such an introduction. “But his résumé evidences a certain…mercenary sensibility.”

“He’s worked for terrorists,” Oggie translated. “And the Sicilian mafia.”

“That last connection makes him of particular use to this mission, of course,” said Blessing. “But since he does have a prior relationship with the Greco family…”

“You’re worried he might still be on their payroll and planning to double-cross us,” said Avery, pressing a fingertip to the throbbing vein in his temple. “You do realize that I’d stand a better chance of surviving an assassination attempt on eight hours’ sleep?”

“This mission would’ve stood a better chance if you hadn’t put Park in a sling,” Oggie muttered.

“Shut up, First Technician,” said Blessing, without looking at him. “Agent, you’ll find a pillkeeper in the suitcase pocket.”

Avery rummaged for the pillkeeper. Its three compartments were color-coded red, blue, and yellow, like an infant’s playmobile.

“Compliments of yours truly,” said Oggie, toasting himself with his smoothie. “Red picks you up; blue puts you down.”

“And yellow?” asked Avery, taking a tablet from the red compartment.

“Yellow is strictly for emergencies.”

Avery tucked the tablet between a fold of paper and crushed it with the base of a lamp. Then he cut the powder into a line with Jebran’s JP Morgan Reserve card and sent it up his nose in a single practiced snort.

Headrush. Vertigo. Avery sat back, blinking to soothe the sting behind his eyes. His headache crested sharply before receding.

“Oh, she _is_ a friendly little helper,” said Avery. His voice rang pleasantly in his ears. “What’s in these, anyway?”

“Caffeine, dexedrine, a soupçon of methylphenidate,” said Oggie. “I call it the Coachella cocktail.”

“But must you?” said Avery sadly.

Still, whatever Oggie chose to call his concoction, the pick-me-up did its work. Avery felt better than he had in weeks. He even found himself humming as he pulled on the slacks and zip-neck jumper that had been packed for him. They were not at all Avery’s style, but perfect for Ronald Jebran, the brokenhearted mid-tier toilet tissue functionary.

Also included in the suitcase were a pair of contact lenses and what would pass at a glance for a flesh-colored hearing aid. Avery tucked the radio into his ear and applied a protective layer of solution before sliding the lenses onto his eyes. A matrix of green dots shimmered in his vision before dissolving.

“What does he look like, anyway, this Simon Segir?” Avery asked, strapping on the wristwatch.

Cricket bounced into the frame and leaned over Blessing’s shoulder to tap at the main console. Blessing leaned away, nostrils flaring. 

(Cricket was new. The old Third Technician would have known better than to annex Leader’s console.)

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” said Cricket around the lollipop she was crunching between her back teeth. “Oh, _weird_. There’s only one picture in the database, and it’s—well, lemme send it to you.”

A CCTV screenshot from Waterloo Station filled the screen. A pale, slight figure in a dark coat walked against the flow of traffic. The camera caught him looking back over his shoulder. Avery had the impression of sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes in a lean, hunted-looking face. He could tell the man was young, mid-20’s perhaps, but could otherwise barely make out his features.

“There’s no way to enhance the image?” he asked.

Cricket shook her head.

“Low resolution, high compression. I could slap up a composite if I had more frames, but he only turns his head for a sec.” 

“He knew where the camera was,” Oggie murmured.

Avery had reached the same conclusion. He and Blessing exchanged a speaking look. 

Waterloo was wired from South Bank to Westminster Bridge. It should’ve been impossible for Segir to appear in so few frames. More than that; the Company’s own surveillance operation was leviathan. For a player to have so thoroughly escaped its reach was unheard of.

Avery was being sent to meet a ghost.

At a quarter to midnight on a Friday, the Rembrandtplein looked like the site of a Roman festival. The plaza was dense with noise and the fug of liquor and smoke. Lads in football jerseys milled around, shouting obscene suggestions at packs of girls in platform heels. The girls shouted back. When Avery passed a bleary-eyed woman in a bachelorette’s tiara, she tried to grab his arm.

“Not my blend of tea, thank you,” said Avery, sidestepping her groping hand.

“Woofter!” she screamed after him before being led away by her friends.

Café Ondervinden was tucked down a side street. Avery flashed his ID at the bouncer, who directed him into a warmly-lit pub thumping with German pop. Though he saw a handful of lads in football jerseys and a throng of American women wearing skintight animal prints, Avery was relieved to see that most of the patrons were local. 

And there, at the bar, was Simon Segir. Avery had been worried that he might miss the rendezvous with so little visual information, but he recognized Segir at once. The thin face, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes: he was unmistakable.

The low-quality CCTV image had failed to capture was how striking he was in person. Simon Segir had the sharp features and narrow frame of a runway model. The impression was enhanced by his outfit—avant-garde for this venue—of an asymmetrical cowl-neck sweater over pieced suede leggings in shades of slate and charcoal. Glossy black curls fell over his forehead. His lips were wet from his drink, and so full and flushed they looked freshly bitten.

Blessing’s voice crackled in Avery’s ear.

“Technician says that your cortisol just spiked. Is everything all right, Agent?”

“Fantastic,” said Avery under his breath.

First things first. Avery should take advantage of the fact that Segir didn’t know what he looked like. He could lap the premises before making contact.

Avery made a lazy circuit of the bar, pausing to browse the well-stocked bookshelves. As he did so, he let his eye settle naturally on the various entry and exit points. The building was flanked on both sides; the only ways in or out were through the front and back doors, or, in dire straits, through the bank of street-facing windows.

Irritation prickled at the back of Avery’s neck. Given the opportunity, he would have come by earlier to case the venue. These old buildings had all sorts of nooks and crannies where an enterprising and foresightful fellow might hide a Glock.

But of course Segir had arranged their meeting this way on purpose. Forcing Avery to fly blind put him at an automatic advantage.

Still, Avery had to admit that Café Ondervinden was well-chosen. The mixed crowd meant that neither Avery nor Segir stood out any more than they would have anyway. The bar was crowded, but not to such an extent that maintaining a circumference of personal space was impossible.

Glancing back at Segir, Avery noted that the seats on either side of him were empty. Apparently he’d managed to establish his own little demilitarized fuck-off zone. Avery adjusted his estimation of the man yet another notch higher.

Avery swung through the gents’, noting the porthole window over the urinals. Was it just big enough for one to wiggle through? Or just small enough to get one’s shoulders stuck in, so that one’s arse was left flapping in the wind like a flag of surrender? There was really no way to tell.

As Avery washed his hands, he took stock, for the second time that night, of the face in the mirror. If he didn’t know himself to be 32, how many years might he think the face had seen? Less than 28 at conversational distance, but a more intimate proximity would adjust that figure up. Creases were just beginning to assert themselves in the folds of the mouth and eyes. Thankfully the frame had weathered better than the siding. The face’s bone structure was masculine, symmetrical, and well-defined, even if the nose was perhaps a hair more aquiline than the Platonic ideal. Although the face’s ethnicity was not immediately obvious, the eyes were—how had Cyril once described them? Vedic? Cyril had been a mistake.

Still, it was an altogether serviceable face. Not beautiful, perhaps, but Avery had never wanted for partners, and he knew how to use his looks to his advantage. 

Indeed, he was beginning to wonder whether that was the real reason why Sato had sent him on this mission in Park’s stead. As far as punishments went, riding out his leave on desk duty would have been infinitely worse. Montalbán was a more obvious choice of replacement, or even Sandberg, but both were the sort of men you wouldn’t hesitate to kick out of bed for eating crackers. 

Avery, on the other hand, had once consumed most of a poundcake in the shrouded bower of a Luxembourgian princess, and her ardor had been undiminished. 

Having reassured himself that Simon Segir would not throw a drink in his face, Avery returned to the bar.

Unfortunately, Segir was no longer alone. An inebriated Dutchman leaned over him, oozing beer fumes and talking too loudly. His hand was creeping up the back of Segir’s chair. 

Segir’s expression was impassive. Only the jump in his jaw betrayed his displeasure.

“Pardon,” said Avery in English, smoothly inserting himself between the drunk and Segir. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to ask—have we met before?”

Segir’s gaze met Avery’s with a frisson of mutual interest. His eyes were that particular shade of gray that drank in color, catching first the deep slate of his sweater, then the greenish glint of the bottles on the bar wall. Avery had the sudden urge to push him up against various surfaces just to watch his eyes change.

“Yes,” said Segir slowly. “Do you know, I think we have.”

“Hey,” said the drunk to Avery. “We are talking, here. You’re being a very rude guy. Maybe, go back to where you are from?”

Avery smiled pleasantly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were doing most of the talking,” he said. To Segir, he went on, “Was it that conference in Düsseldorf? I seem to have this phantom memory of you at the Kom(m)ödchen.”

Before Segir could reply, the drunk dug his elbow into Avery’s stomach and shoved him away. His other hand landed possessively on Segir’s shoulder.

“ _Kanker Marokkanen_ ,” he spat.

Segir moved faster than Avery would have thought possible. In the time it took for Avery to register that he had been insulted, Segir had kicked the drunk’s legs out from under him and slammed his head on the bar. 

The drunk went down like a ninepin. He struck the floor with such force that Avery almost felt sorry for him.

“Oh dear,” said Segir blandly. “It looks like Hans has had too much to drink.”

Avery’s opinion of the Café Ondervinden increased by several orders of magnitude when the barkeep merely signaled the bouncer, who hauled the man to his feet and propelled him out the door.

“I can’t help but notice that this seat has suddenly become available,” said Avery.

Segir arched a brow. The expression struck Avery with the memory of a statue of Antinous he had seen in Cumae once, its marble eyes gazing back at him through history. He’d felt then as he did now: as though all the nerve had run out of him.

Then, to Avery’s relief, Simon shrugged and gestured at the seat beside him. Hardly a warm invitation, but Avery would take it.

“I’m afraid my Dutch leaves something to be desired,” said Avery, sliding into the barstool. “What was it Hans called me?”

Segir’s lovely mouth twisted at the corners.

“‘Cancer Moroccan.’ It means—”

“Yes, I get the gist,” said Avery, wincing. “And here I thought the Dutch were such a tolerant people.”

“Persons are tolerant,” said Segir primly. “People rarely are.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” said Avery. He flicked open his wallet and withdrew the business card. “Ronald Jebran.”

Segir took the card between fingers sheathed in thin black gloves. His mobile lay beside the book he had been reading. ( _Smiley’s People_ , Avery was amused to see.) Segir angled the chipped corner of the card so that it was in range of the mobile’s signal. 

The screen ignited with a string of symbols. Gibberish to Avery, but Segir’s gaze flicked over the screen with cool apprehension. He nodded, satisfied, and tucked the card into the case of his mobile. Then he turned a luminous smile on Avery.

“Call me Simon,” he said.

“Pleased to meet you, Simon,” said Avery, extending his hand.

Instead of shaking it, Simon picked up the poison-green drink at his elbow and put it in Avery’s hand.

“A curious specimen indeed,” said Avery, holding the drink up to the light. As he had hoped, Simon’s eyes glinted green. “What am I holding, exactly?”

“I believe it’s called an Appletini.”

“How unfortunate. That doesn’t seem at all your style.”

“Hans ordered for me,” said Simon, his tone conveying the vast scope of this tragedy.

Avery’s opinion of Hans fell, if possible, lower.

“You do realize that he probably took the opportunity to spike your drink?” Avery said in undertone, placing the Apple-thingy on the bar.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Simon agreed. “But I’m sure your constitution is much stronger than mine, Mr. Jebran.”

“Ronald, please.”

“Not Ronnie?”

“ _Never_ Ronnie,” said Avery, suppressing a shudder. He could not, of course, tell Simon that this was his youngest sister’s name.

Avery caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a gin and tonic for himself. Then he asked what Simon had been drinking. The bartender looked at Simon, who nodded permission. Avery made a mental note to double the man’s tip.

“Ginger ale, straight,” said the bartender. “He’s just finished his second.”

Simon had his chin propped in his palm and was looking at Avery with a beatific expression. 

“I’ll have another, if you’re buying,” he said.

“Are you sure? Only I wouldn’t want you to have trouble getting home on your own, what with that weak constitution of yours.”

“On longer acquaintance,” said Simon, “you will find that I’m marvelously self-sufficient.”

The bartender popped the tab on a fresh can of ginger ale. Avery raised his glass; Simon followed suit. They clinked. 

Under the bar, Avery’s knee brushed Simon’s. A jolt of arousal ran up his inner thigh. 

Simon jerked his leg away. His face twisted. Avery saw a flash of teeth, bared as if to bite.

Then, in the next moment, Simon’s face smoothed. He smiled absently, playing his fingers along the rim of his glass. Droplets of ginger ale sparkled on the dark fabric of his glove.

A group of punters arrived noisily at the other end of the bar. The bartender went to take their order.

The moment he was out of range, the expression slipped from Simon’s face, revealing cold displeasure beneath.

“I realize that the game necessitates improvisation,” he said in undertone, “but if we’re to work together, I at least expect the courtesy of being kept informed.” Seeing Avery’s confusion, he said, “I was supposed to meet a Kevin Jeong. Your people told me that he had been replaced, but not why.”

Jeong was Park’s alias. Avery felt an unexpected jolt of what upon closer examination appeared to have the general contours of guilt. 

“Last minute change of schedule,” said Avery, masking his discomfort by taking a sip of gin.

“I wouldn’t have thought your outfit did anything last minute.”

“We don’t, as a rule,” said Avery. Then, without meaning to, he admitted, “There was a training accident. Jeong had his wrist dislocated.”

“Oh?” said Simon quietly. “How careless of him.”

The bartender returned, sparing Avery the unpleasant business of having to come up with a response.

“Well, I certainly hope you’ll be more careful with me, Mr. Jebran,” said Simon brightly. He tilted his head at the bartender, as though Avery did not know they had an audience. 

“Ronald,” said Avery, battling down irritation. He could not help feeling that Simon had gotten one over on him somehow.

“Ronald.” Simon put down his glass. A gesture of finality. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at the end of my night.”

“That is a shame,” said Avery, with real regret.

He had the sudden wild urge to invite Simon back to the Florijn. To any observer (and Avery did not doubt they were being observed), such a proposition would seem the natural conclusion to their exchange. And Simon could hardly object to being propositioned. The mission offered Avery an armored veil of plausible deniability to cast over his intentions. An agent could not very well exchange sensitive information with an asset in a crowded pub, after all. Transitioning the rendezvous to a more secure location was the natural next step. The plan had been to save that step for the following day, after debriefing with Leader, but, as Simon had himself pointed out, the game necessitated improvisation.

And then, perhaps, once Avery had Simon in his rooms…

Avery cut himself off before he veered into unrecoverable territory. He was thinking with the wrong head, as usual. This was how Park had ended up in a sling. This was how Avery had ended up in the game to begin with, and not an accountant in the Cotswolds with a wife and five children as his poor parents had so earnestly hoped. 

Besides, Avery had no idea whether Simon was genuinely interested. 

And, more to the point, the Sicilian mafia had stolen a chip containing next-generation weapon schematics and were brokering a sale with an unknown but certainly nefarious buyer in ten days’ time. Simon had been hired to help prevent World War III. Avery was not going to bollocks up the entire operation by trying to sleep with him.

Certainly not until he was absolutely sure that Simon wouldn’t turn him down.

Avery turned back to Simon, who was settling up with the bartender. A missed opportunity: Avery had planned to pay the tab himself. No matter.

“I hope you won’t find it odd if I just—scribble my number down on this napkin?” said Avery, pulling a Montblanc from his jumper pocket. “For no reason in particular.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. The expression would have had the same devastating effect on Avery’s constitution as previously had Avery not steeled himself in preparation. He smiled at Simon, meltingly, and felt Simon melt a fraction in return.

“Do you often go around writing your number on napkins?” said Simon.

“Yes, it’s a dreadful compulsion. I’ve had it since puberty.”

Without waiting for Simon’s reply. Avery scrawled the number of his burner phone below the bar’s logo. Then he laid the napkin carefully on the bar, lining all four corners up with the pattern in the copper inlay. He cleared his throat.

“Well, there it is.” 

“Yes.” 

They both observed the napkin. 

“Of course,” said Simon, “now there’s the danger that someone will come along and pick it up.”

“Oh dear. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Don’t worry,” said Simon, taking it. “I shall put it in my pocket for safekeeping.”

They observed each other. The bartender looked on, amused.

“May I hail you a car?” Avery asked, pushing his luck. 

Simon gave the matter some consideration before deciding that he would allow it, but only because Avery was taller and therefore easier for the drivers to spot.

Avery was taller. When they stood, Simon only came up to his chin. It was an exercise of will to keep from placing his hand on the small of Simon’s back—which, with surely preordained convenience, was at exactly the right height for Avery’s hand to rest upon.

Ah, well. Another time.

To Avery’s dismay, when they got outside a pale rain was shimmering down in needles. He had not brought an anorak—an amateur mistake, he appreciated now. Even the bachelorettes and football lads had those transparent slickers which always made him think of bags of takeaway.

Simon was, of course, delighted to see Avery start back cursing from the wet.

“You’re like a cat,” he said, before unfurling some sort of infernally clever all-in-one from his bag. There was both a stylish hooded slicker, which Simon pulled over his head, and a stylish black umbrella, which Simon opened over them. The rain pinged tinnily on its dense canopy. 

Avery felt as though he was back at school after a rained-out cricket match, sheltering under a tree with a boy he wanted desperately. He appreciated, through the humiliation, how clever it was of Simon to make him feel this way.

To top it all off, Simon didn’t need Avery to call him a car after all. He had one of those obnoxiously charming bicycles that everyone rode here.

“I suppose I ought to get one,” said Avery, looking at the bicycle mournfully. “If only they came with little built-in marquees.”

Simon was laughing at him. He pressed his lips together, Sphinxlike, but his eyes gleamed with humor in the light reflected from the rain.

“It would be really cruel of me to leave a cat without cover,” he said gravely, extending the handle of his umbrella.

Pride surged in Avery—the sort of absurd, self-defeating, deeply male pride that led to ruin and wet socks. Avery battered it down. His socks were Bottega Veneta; they were too expensive to ruin. Besides, accepting the umbrella gave Avery an excuse to brush his hand against Simon’s.

Simon pulled away just as their fingers were about to touch, leaving Avery fumbling at the handle like an idiot.

“Of course, this means I shall have to see you again,” said Avery, recovering his composure. “In order to return your umbrella.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed, throwing a leg over his bicycle, “I seem to have given you an excuse.”

“Are you free tomorrow at all?”

“I _think_ I can make time,” said Simon, pushing off. Over his shoulder, he called, “I’ll find you at the Hotel Florijn.”

It was not until he disappeared around the corner that Avery realized he’d never told Simon where he was staying.


	2. Chapter 2

Avery awoke in a foul mood. It took longer than usual to remember why. He scowled at the ceiling until the machinery of his brain clicked into place.

 _Jeanne_. Jeanne Moreau, sun-bronzed from leave, waving her engagement ring in his face.

With that memory, the rest unspooled like a movie reel.

Avery smiling through his teeth. Congratulating Agent Moreau. Congratulating Agent Park. Challenging Park to friendly sparring match resulting in unfortunate but blameless act of misadventure. Avery blamed by everyone anyway in typical example of anti-Avery prejudice plaguing workplace these days.

Exile. Air travel. Plane lagers. Hangover. Hollanders bleating bicycle bells at him. Hotel. Bath. Blessing’s disembodied head. Thankless treatment by team furthering trend of persecution. (Team apparently suffering amnesia re: sundry acts of world-saving and time Avery brought back croissants from Paris.)

Headrush. Tourists. Pub…

A pair of chameleon-colored eyes. Headrush again, this time further south. Realizing that he was out of his depth. Remembering why it was a feeling he used to relish. Being so exhilarated that he almost didn’t mind having to walk back to the Hotel Florijn with a partial erection and socks taking on water like the Titanic.

Hearing voices outside his room, Avery wrestled himself out of the bedsheets and into his robe. Though Avery couldn’t make out what was being said, he recognized Mw. Niemantsverdriet’s labored English. This decided him against a gun. He did, however, slip into his pocket a cigarette case which, opened at the right angle, would fire hollow-point pellets of toxic gas.

The voices sounded so near that Avery flung open his door expecting to find Mw. Niemantsverdriet and company on the threshold. But no—the acoustics of the cavernous foyer were playing tricks on him. The voices actually came from downstairs, where Mw. Niemantsverdriet was at the front door speaking to someone on the stoop. Avery caught a glimpse of black curls and a moss-colored sweater.

Abandoning all pretense of dignity, Avery raced down the staircase. He picked up so much speed on the turns that when he hit the ground floor landing, velocity carried him forward and he nearly ran headlong into a grandfather clock. He managed to save himself by using an umbrella stand as a pivot.

Avery swung round to see Mw. Niemantsverdriet staring at him. She’d just closed the door; her hand was still on the knob. In the other, she held a note.

Seeing Avery’s desolated expression, Mw. Niemantsverdriet clucked her tongue.

“ _Lieve hemel!_ You are only a day in Amsterdam and already having men?”

“ _Ik ben een eenvoudig iemand_ , _Mevrouw_ ,” said Avery, which was all the Dutch he could be expected to muster at 8 o’clock in the morning. “I take it that note is for me?”

Mw. Niemantsverdriet pursed her lips, looking as though she wanted to deny it on principle. But she handed the note over, magnanimously, like a woman in a fur coat disbursing a pound coin to a beggar.

“ _Hartelijk bedankt_ ,” said Avery with a sardonic little bow.

He made himself wait until he was back in his rooms before opening the note. In handwriting so precise it might’ve been produced by a computer were directions to Bar Kleinhuis in de Baarsjes. Avery supposed this was Simon’s idea of a breakfast invitation.

With a rapidity that put his sprint down the stairs to shame, Avery bathed, shaved, and brushed his teeth (twice; it never hurt to be optimistic). He logged the rendezvous site into his laptop with one hand while yanking on a pair of briefs with the other.

The moment he’d finished the log, Cricket appeared on the screen. Seeing Avery _en déshabillé_ , she wailed and threw her hands over her eyes.

“All right, Technician,” said Avery irritably, pulling on an undershirt. “No need to reenact the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin. Is there a problem with my gear?”

Cricket peeked through her fingers. “Yes. I mean no. I mean—it’s not our gear that’s the problem. It’s Segir’s. He blocked our signal somehow. We had visual, but the moment you got within five feet of him the audio started blasting static. Eskil—I mean Second Technician nearly had a stroke.”

That was unsurprising. Eskil Einarsson had the workhouse pallor and perpetual cough of a resurrectionist’s apprentice. Avery clapped him on the shoulder once and he went down like a ninepin.

“Gear’s not my area,” said Avery. “Take it to Principal Technician.”

“But—”

“But?”

Cricket looked miserable. “But Gordie—I mean, Principal Technician shouts at people.”

“That’s because he’s got a deaf ear from standing too close to the speakers at those ridiculous music festivals where people paint themselves blue and have sex in tents,” said Avery. This was strictly true, though he rather suspected Gordie would shout at people even if his hearing was clear as a bell. Cricket looked as though she thought so, too.

“He has a sign on his door,” she whispered, “that says _Intruders will be Thrown to the Sarlaac_.”

“If you’re that worried, get Second Technician to take you.”

“But I don’t want to bother him!” Cricket wailed.

“Bother him,” said Avery firmly. He had never met a man more in need of bothering than Eskil.

Before Cricket could protest, Avery cut the connection.

It was at this point that Avery was forced to confront the full scope of the tragedy that was Ronald Jebran’s wardrobe. If he ever got back to Base, he was going to have a word with whoever decided that zip-neck jumpers would be Jebran’s signature look. And, god, the chinos! In khaki. With _pleats_. Were the wardrobe minions punishing Avery for returning his last three Brioni suits in tatters? Spiteful creatures. It wasn’t as if he asked to be shot at.

Avery selected the least offensive pair of chinos and a jumper that might pass, at a distance, for tolerable. He then had another moment of horror as he realized that the minions had packed him nothing but white athletic socks. Oh, how they would suffer when Avery was back in Sato’s better graces. He would simply have to go sockless and hope his trousers didn’t ride up at an inopportune moment.

De Baarsjes was a short distance by taxi. Once again, Avery had to appreciate Simon’s choice of venue. Bar Kleinhuis was tucked away down a sleepy tree-lined avenue with little foot traffic. The morning light glancing off the canal glared white on the windows, concealing diners from passersby.

Indeed, it wasn’t until Avery opened the door that he saw Simon. He was sitting at a rickety wooden table, its surface worn smooth as a conker shell, with a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. The cup he had to hold at a distance lest the steam occlude the lenses of his reading glasses. His cheeks were still flushed with high points of color from the bicycle ride.

Avery realized that he’d stopped halfway through the door and was staring at Simon like a chinos-clad street prowler. As he pushed the door the rest of the way, it struck a bell, sending a chime through the café.

Hearing it, Simon looked up. His hair had flopped over his forehead as he read; now he pushed it back with a deft, irritated gesture that made Avery think his hair must fall that way often.

“I’m glad to see that this time I won’t have to fight off other suitors for the pleasure of your company,” said Avery, taking the chair across from Simon.

“If I remember correctly, I disposed of Hans myself,” said Simon, sliding a bookmark between the pages of his book.

“And a very neat job you made of it, too. I have resolved to never test your patience.”

Simon pressed his lips together in what was, yet was not quite, a smile.

“Do you think you’ll find that an easy resolution to keep?” he asked.

“I suppose that depends upon the durability of your patience,” Avery replied. He plucked a menu from the table opposite. “Have you ordered?”

“Only tea.”

“I would make a joke about going Dutch—”

“—but for your resolution?”

“Alas. Puns don’t seem your sort of thing.”

“Oh, my tastes are more catholic than you imagine,” said Simon, running a gloved finger along the rim of his cup. “At certain angles, I’m marvelously flexible.”

Fortunately the arrival of the waiter distracted from Avery choking on his own tongue. He busied himself with the menu as Simon ordered black coffee and muesli. Avery’s last meal had been a packet of airplane crisps; he was not planning to be anywhere near so abstentious. When the waiter turned to him, Avery let his eye roam over the menu and rattled off whatever caught his fancy. Tea, coffee, orange juice; _wentelteefjes_ with jam and cream; currant buns with cheese; _appelstroop_ , _speculaas_ , _ontbijtkoek_ …

“And what is _hagelslag?_ ” he asked, intrigued. “Some sort of sausage, by the sound of it.”

“A Dutch abomination,” said Simon, shuddering. “Chocolate sprinkles on soft buttered bread.”

“How ingenious,” said Avery. “I’ll take two.”

When his tea arrived, Avery poured in four sugar packets and half the creamer of milk. Simon made a small noise of pain.

The chime of the bell announced the arrival of other diners. A group of university girls bounced in, gossiping with the blithe unconcern of young people who didn’t care who overheard. One of the girls saw Avery and went pink. She whispered something to her friends. Avery found himself suddenly under the scrutiny of several keen pairs of eyes. The girls turned back to each other, giggling.

“I see you have a fan club,” said Simon.

“It’s the jumper. Every time I wear it, I have to beat women off with a stick.”

Simon smiled absently, tracing the grain on the table with his fingertip. Avery could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“Where are you from, Mr. Jebran?” asked Simon abruptly.

“Ronald, please,” said Avery, and wondered whether Ronald would hate this question as much as he did. “I was born in Beirut, but my family moved to London when I was six.”

“How interesting. Have you kept up with your Arabic?”

Avery twigged. Simon wasn’t making an indelicately foray into Avery’s ethnic background; he was looking for a language for them to speak in that the other diners wouldn’t understand. Thankfully Avery did have a little Arabic.

“But I’m not good in it,” he admitted, muddled consonants making the point for him. “We spoke French more at home. I don’t assume you know Malay?”

“My Malay is worse than your Arabic,” said Simon. Then, switching to Mandarin, “But as long as we’re traveling into the Asian mainland…”

“Of course,” said Avery, relieved. His Mandarin was rather better than his Dutch. “Did you study in China? You speak like a native.”

“And you have an accent I can’t quite place,” said Simon. “Taiwanese? No, I have it: Medan Hokkien. You spent time in Sumatra, then?”

“Less than you’d think,” said Avery, shifting uneasily in his seat. Simon was too sharp by half. “You aren’t worried about being recorded?”

“To the contrary,” Simon said, “I don’t go anywhere without a jammer.” He tapped on the case of his phone. “It’s quite powerful. Anyone listening in will hear nothing but dead air.”

Good to know that the jammer was in Simon’s phone—unless this was misdirection, of course. More to the point: had Cricket figured out how to block the damn thing, or were the Office speakers presently howling static? If so, Avery hoped the people on the other end of Simon’s listening devices were suffering the same. British intelligence may have assured them that S. Segir was a lone wolf, but Avery had even less confidence in their intel than Blessing did. Part of his brief was to discover whether Simon really was working on his own, or if his strings, like Avery’s, were in the hands of other masters.

Avery’s expression must’ve let slip something he didn’t intend. Simon’s mouth tightened incrementally.

“Of course, I wouldn’t be surprised if your outfit has warned you not to trust me,” he said.

“My outfit didn’t need to warn me,” said Avery. “I wouldn’t have trusted you in any case.”

To Avery’s astonishment, Simon made a soft noise in the back of his throat that was very nearly a laugh.

“Good,” said Simon. “I was hoping you weren’t completely a fool.”

“Is this the part of the movie where goons with machine guns burst in and spatter me over the walls?”

“No. This is the part where I lean forward and ask you very gravely whether you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Well, in that case allow me to reassure you that this is not my first _hagelslag_.”

Simon cast his eyes up at the ceiling. “You can’t say I didn’t try,” he said, as though addressing himself to God.

When Simon turned back to Avery, he was all business. “Manfredi Greco arrives in Amsterdam this weekend,” he said. “I won’t know the day and time until his man calls from Palermo. They’ve been fiendish about security since Manfredi’s cousin Lorenzo was assassinated.”

“I thought Manfredi was the one who ordered the hit.”

“Naturally,” said Simon, with a touch of impatience. “And if Manfredi could get to Lorenzo, then any of the other cousins could get to Manfredi. Hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Avery agreed. “Should we be worried about a third party interfering in our operation?”

“It’s a risk I’ve considered,” said Simon. He’d been stirring his tea; now he clinked the spoon against the cup before laying it down in the exact center of his napkin. The precision of the gesture made Avery ache just below his breastbone.

“Which of the cousins do you think we’ll be most likely to run into?” Avery asked, trying to ignore the fact that Simon’s knee was an inch from his own.

“Pagolo,” said Simon decidedly. “He has at least one pair of eyes and ears in Manfredi’s innermost circle.”

“Still attached to the head, I hope.”

“For now,” said Simon. “Manfredi’s wife, Accursia.”

“Well, with a name like that…”

“From the Latin _curro_. To hasten. Fortunately I have eyes and ears on her—virtual ones, in my case. If Pagolo decides to make a move on Manfredi, she’ll know, and I’ll know. For now we assume Manfredi is our only antagonist.”

“We can’t have too many antagonists,” Avery agreed. “If the plot thickens in the first act, it’ll congeal by the second. So: Manfredi’s fellow calls you. What then?”

“We arrange the rendezvous. I tell him that I’ve found a competing buyer who wants to enter a bid.” Simon pursed his lips. “Of course, when Jeong was in the mix, it was plausible that he might be a representative for North Korea.”

Avery had the sort of looks that allowed him to pass for any number of nationalities, but Korean was not among them.

“May I draw your attention to the ongoing conflict in the Kashmir region?” he said. “A weapon like the Gauntlet would be a surefire tiebreaker, if they could build it.”

“Do you speak Kashmiri?”

“No, but I’m a dab hand in Hindi. I could be a sympathizer. Or a trafficker! I do a quite convincing trafficker.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Simon, as though humoring him. “But no. I’ve already gone through the trouble of setting up dummy bank accounts across Liaoning province and some very obvious shell corporations in Hong Kong. These sorts of breadcrumbs take time to scatter, you know. No, I’ve thought of another role for you.”

Avery could think of any number of roles he would like to play with Simon, but, alas, none had tactical potential. He put his hands palm-up on the table and asked, “How shall you cast me?”

“As my bookkeeper,” Simon replied. “In a manner of speaking. You see, I find myself with an unprecedented amount of red in my ledger. A run of bad luck,” he said before Avery could ask, in a tone that severely discouraged further inquiry. “Manfredi knows. It’s why he thinks he can buy my services as middleman so cheaply.” A flash of bitterness, gone in the next moment. “So he’ll appreciate how fortunate I was to run into a lonely holidaymaker with deep pockets.”

“You want me to play your mark?”

“My benefactor,” Simon corrected. “You’ve generously offered to keep me in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed until my business deal goes through and I’m back in the black.”

“You’ve seen my hotel. I hardly think Manfredi will buy that I’m keeping you in luxury.”

Simon physically recoiled.

“You misunderstand,” he said icily. “Of course I won’t be staying with you. Manfredi knows me; I don’t overnight. No, you’ll pay for my suite at the Waldorf-Astoria.”

“My outfit is not footing the bill for you to swan about the Waldorf bloody Astoria.”

“The Continental, then. Manfredi will never believe that I settled for less.”

“It sounds like you have quite the cozy history, you and Manfredi.”

“Cozy isn’t the word I’d use.”

“What word would you use?”

“Mutually advantageous.”

“That’s two words.”

Simon clasped a gloved hand to his breast. “ _Attaque au fer_ , Mr. Jebran! But I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that if you intend to go _corps-à-corps_.”

Avery exhaled slowly through his nose. He asked, “Do you have some sort of moral objection to calling people by their first names?”

“Not usually.” Simon cut his glance away. “I knew a boy in school named Ronald.”

“Did he pay for your suite at the Waldorf-Astoria?”

“He stuck my head in a toilet.”

Avery could certainly see why one might want to stick Simon’s head in a toilet. Right now he rather wanted to stick Simon’s head in a toilet himself.

Instead he asked, “What would you like to call me?”

Simon rested his chin in his palm with that beatific expression Avery was rapidly learning not to trust.

“Off the top of my head? John Avery has a nice ring to it.”

Avery stilled. Of course John Avery wasn’t his real name, no more than Ronald Jebran. But he’d worn the title long enough that it fit him like a secondhand suit whose previous owner shared his measurements exactly. Hearing Simon throw it around so casually made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“John Avery?” he repeated, keeping his voice neutral. “I don’t know. Makes me sound a bit of a charlie, don’t you think?”

“Oh, I think it rather suits you. Better than Ronald, anyway.”

“And what should I call you?”

“Simon, of course. What else?”

“You tell me,” said Avery flatly.

Simon—or whoever he really was—tilted his head to the side with a slight frown, as though Avery had just said something indecent and he was trying to formulate a tactful reply. Fortunately the waiter arrived with their coffees before Avery could say something truly indecent and get them kicked out of the café.

As Avery shook the remaining sugar packets into his coffee with unnecessary violence, Simon asked, “What about the other buyer? The real one. Does your outfit have any leads?”

“That’s classified,” Avery snapped.

He regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. While strictly true—this was espionage; even the laundry bill was classified—agents at Avery’s level had dispensation to share necessary intelligence with assets. Probably Simon knew that. Probably he was laughing to himself at how easily he’d got under Avery’s skin.

Simon didn’t laugh, but he did do that thing with his eyebrow that made Avery’s testicles retreat into his body.

“Of course I would never presume to pry,” he said mildly.

 _He’s a hacker, Avery, you absolute tit_. Prying was his job. If Simon wasn’t already aware of their leads on the real buyer, Avery had just all but dared him to find out.

“You know that the Grecos stole the schematics for the Gauntlet from Nath Industries,” said Avery, relenting. “Well, we have reason to believe the call came from inside the house.”

“Ah. Corporate sabotage?”

Avery shrugged. “No one’s awarding Arlo Nath any popularity contests, for all he likes to style himself a philanthropist. Actually, we’ve reason to think the other buyer was operating out of the charitable arm of Nath’s empire. Cheeky bugger, too, whoever they are. The Gauntlet heist was funded with money embezzled from Nath’s Daedalus Foundation.”

As he spoke, Avery watched Simon’s face closely. If this was information he knew, he gave no sign of it. When Avery finished, Simon gave a low whistle.

“Cheeky’s putting it lightly,” he said. “More like suicidal, from what I’ve heard about Nath. Do you think the buyer is one of his competitors?”

“Possibly, but…”

“But?”

Creamer marbled the surface of Avery’s coffee. He traced a fernlike pattern with the tip of his spoon as he weighed his response.

“I once knew an art historian who specialized in forgeries,” he said at last. “Absolutely brilliant. She could look at a painting and see in a second that it was fake. There was always a tell, you see, even if her conscious mind hadn’t found it yet. Instinct knew.”

“And you’re the art historian in this metaphor?”

“Like I said, this isn’t my first _hagelslag_ ,” said Avery. “I know what these sorts of deals look like. This one looks wrong. But no matter how many times I turn the bloody thing over, I haven’t found the tell.”

“Yet,” Simon corrected.

Once again, it took Avery a moment to twig. When he did, a grin lit his face.

“Why, Mr. Segir. Is that a declaration of faith in my abilities?”

Simon gave him a look that would have been withering had he not just put Avery in unwitherable spirits.

“I did my homework on you, John Avery, just as I’m sure your outfit did theirs on me. You’re a specialist, like your art historian friend.”

“With a rather different remit.”

“But no less proficiency in your area of expertise.” His voice softened almost imperceptibly. “Rather more, I should think.”

“You only say that because you’ve never spoken to my art historian friend about the use of _tenebroso_ in Caravaggio’s nudes.”

“I’ve strong opinions in that vein myself, as it happens.”

“Oh?” said Avery, leaning forward.

But the food arrived then, along with the breakfast rush. It was no longer safe to speak, even in Mandarin.

Avery was careful to put several canals’ distance between himself and Simon before calling Office. Blessing picked up at once.

Avery was beyond niceties. He rapped out, “Secure the line.”

As Avery walked, he was enclosed in a bubble of radio interference. He waited until car speakers started hissing as he passed before saying, “The asset knows my name.”

“ _What?_ Not your real name.”

“Of course not. My Company title. If he knew my real name, I would have shot him.”

“And torched the rendezvous site, I hope.” Blessing exhaled. “Still. That isn’t information he should have.”

“No bloody kidding!”

“I’ll look into it. Scan in once you’re back at lodgings.”

Avery elbowed a bicycle out of the way and flagged down a cab. The bicyclist made a rude gesture through the window. Avery returned it. There was a nasty sort of pleasure in knocking someone else off their equilibrium, as Avery had been knocked off his.

Simon knew his Company title. What else did he know? Could he trace John Avery back to Jakarta? Further? In those lost days before the Company, Avery had not been careful. In fact, he had been about as reckless as it was possible for a man in his line of work to be. He had not, then, wanted very much to live. Looking back now, he could see so clearly the tracks he’d left behind. They converged like the point of an arrow. And if Simon followed the arc of that arrow to its point of departure …

Avery rarely thought of his family. He thought of them now.

They were utterly, magnificently ordinary. His father was an accountant; his mother taught primary school and sang in the village choir. The most outrageous thing they’d ever done was marry each other, and the dust on that scandal had so thoroughly settled that Dadiji left Mum her murg makhani recipe and Baba and Grandad still took the village title for doubles’ tennis every year. As for Avery’s siblings—Christ, Ronnie aside, they were the most conventional people imaginable. None of them had even left Little Wembley. What would they do if Avery’s world came knocking on their door?

 _Die,_ whispered a little voice at the back of his mind. _And so easily._

No. It did not bear thinking about.

When Avery scanned in to Office, Blessing barely had time to inform him that the inquiry had been referred to Principal Technician before Gordie Todd took over the screen.

“First of fucking all,” he bellowed, “my firewall is intact as the day she was born, and I’ll not have you casting aspersions on her virtue. On the say-so of some _hacker,_ ” he went on, warming to his theme, “some _Black Hat_ MI6 dumped on our doorstep like a moggy stray with _fleas,_ Agent, and, and _gum disease_ —”

“Gum disease?”

Gordie stabbed a finger at the screen. “Don’t change the subject while I’m questioning your loyalty. Now: what exactly did this stray animal say to you?”

Avery relayed the conversation. Hearing it, he winced at how weak his worries sounded. _The asset knew my title. He said he’d done his homework on me_. What felt like threats in the moment now looked more like shadows Simon had cast to see if Avery would jump. And jump Avery had.

“Well, wherever the animal got his intel, it wasn’t from our servers,” said Gordie once Avery had finished. “I’m a proud man, Agent, but I’d tell you if there were signs of a breach.” His eyes flickered, reading whatever he’d pulled up on his screen. “You’ve been with us seven years, in the field five? Busy boy, too. This service record’s longer than the Book of Psalms.”

“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”

“And idle lips his mouthpiece. Speaking of which.” Gordie flicked his glasses down his nose in order to peer over the rims like a censorious headmaster. “It’s no secret you’re a bit of a goer, Agent. Can you look me in the eye and say you never once let your Company name slip in a heated moment?”

“Never,” said Avery honestly. “But…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Well, it’s possible that in the blush of youth I wasn’t as strict about security as I might’ve been. Made calls on unsecured lines, that sort of thing. Sometimes in hearing range of, ah, temporary companions.”

Gordie wagged a finger. Avery groaned.

“I know, I _know_. If it’s any consolation, Deputy Director ripped me several new ones over it. I’ve been the model of discretion ever since.”

Gordie looked off on the diagonal, confirming with Blessing. Whatever she said made him laugh.

“What did she tell you?” Avery demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” said Gordie, chuckling. “Right, well, it’s looking likely the Black Hat got your title off some floozy. Still, protocol wants following in cases like this.”

Avery groaned again, this time with real feeling.

“Oh, god. Not a security interview.”

“Listen, fuckface, you’ve pulled me away from no less than six international emergencies, an explosion in R&D, and a boss fight with Darkeater Midir. You’ll take your interview and you’ll like it.”

“Yes sir!” said Avery smartly, snapping a salute.

“None of that now,” said Gordie, thunderous, but Avery didn’t miss how his cheeks pinked.

As always, the interview was as thorough, intimate, and unpleasant as a cavity search. Avery never felt his lack of privacy quite so keenly as when he was asked to account for every orgasm enjoyed in mixed company. Still, he’d refined the trick of distancing himself, answering questions as though on behalf of a randy, well-traveled, and occasionally lethal friend.

Unfortunately, this trick became several orders of magnitude more difficult when Gordie began asking about his family.

“When was the last time you spoke to them?”

“Last Christmas I drove to Liverpool and rang home from a payphone outside the airport.”

“No contact since then?”

“None.”

“And before that?”

“I haven’t seen any of them in person since making agent. I call twice a year at most, only from payphones, never the same payphone twice, and I always log the calls with Office.”

“Any written contact?”

“Just postcards. _Wish You Were Here_. Office sends them, I don’t know from where. Well, from wherever I’m not, I suppose.”

“And when you phone home, what d’you talk about?”

“Nothing. Truly nothing. Goings-on about the village. Whatever color my youngest sister’s dyed her hair. The other three have all got kids, so that’s good for several yonks of vapid conversation.”

“Do they ask questions about your work?”

“There’s nothing to ask about. They think I’m a productivity analyst for a multinational widget-making corporation. It’s the most boring cover story ever invented.”

“And you’ve no reason to suppose they think anything of it?”

“They think I’m a rotten son who hasn’t been home in a dog’s age and can barely be arsed to call his own mum. Aside from that? No. They aren’t curious people, Principal. Just disappointed.”

Gordie looked stern over his glasses. “I don’t have to give you that making-the-world-a-better-place boke, do I?”

“God, no,” said Avery, with a vehemence that surprised him. “The Company saved my life, I’ve no illusions about that. Besides, I’ve been letting my family down for the past twenty years. It would be a matter of real suspicion if I stopped now.”

“Well, at least no one could call you inconsistent.”

“Whatever else they call me.” Avery dug his thumbs into his temples. “Hell. How do you deal with your family, Principal?”

“Oh, I faked my own death.”

Avery almost laughed. Then he realized that Gordie wasn’t joking.

“Ah,” he said weakly. “That must…simplify things.”

“Oh, aye. Never have to pay my brother back that fifty quid I laid on Celtic winning the Championship Cup.”

Gordie sat back and crossed his hairy arms over his belly. “Now we’ve done with business, I’d be a piss-poor friend if I didn’t tell you what an absolute cock-up you’ve made of this trip so far. Nearly two days in Amsterdam and you still haven’t gotten your end away? Pathetic.”

“A disappointment to queen and country, am I?” said Avery, grinning.

“Worse _,_ ” said Gordie, “a disappointment to _me_.”

“That is worse,” Avery agreed. “ _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa._ How might I earn absolution?”

“Well, since you asked.” Gordie dropped his voice. “There’s a bathhouse by the Damrak where they’ve bear nights once a month. Got a sauna like one of those pornos from the 70’s—”

“Yes, thank you, Principal,” said Blessing, annexing the screen. “Agent, I’ve just spoken with the Technicians. It seems we have yet to disable Segir’s jammer. They were able to produce a rough transcript of this morning’s meeting based on the video from your lenses, but I need you to fill in some gaps.”

The transcript was mostly gaps, and Avery was required to spend the next hour filling them in. The more times he went over that morning’s meeting, the more excruciatingly obvious it became that Simon had twisted his leather-gloved fingers into Avery’s short hairs and was now enjoying a nice firm grip by which to drag him around. No doubt Oggie’s bioreadings would confirm just how back-footed Avery had been at every turn. Damn science.

And damn technology. Until Cricket and Eskil figured out how to either disable Simon’s jammer or boost the signal of Avery’s earpiece, he would be required to submit daily reports.

“Like school,” said Avery disgustedly. He’d hated school.

“What a good thing I have records of your marks, Agent, or I might think you were illiterate,” said Blessing. “Park is recovering well, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

Avery had just taken a sip of water; at this, it flew up his nose. Through the sting, he managed to croak out, “Oh?”

“As well as can be expected, anyway. At first it looked like he might need surgery to realign the bones in his wrist, but fortunately the doctor was able to reset them manually.”

Avery coughed. “Oh.”

“Of course, since Park is allergic to anesthesia, he had to be awake for the procedure. Which was excruciating.”

Avery had reached his personal quota of monosyllables. Instead he made a noncommittal humming noise.

“Just thought you ought to know,” said Blessing. “Good day, Agent.”

“Cheers,” said Avery, to the suddenly blank screen.

He was sitting in one of those spinning desk chairs, a model so elderly that the seat was coming apart from the base. It wobbled on its axis like a head on a broken neck. Avery wobbled himself round in a drunk little circle. He felt prickly and put-upon and, yes, guilty, just as Blessing intended. Guilt had always been one of those emotions that other people seemed to feel far more acutely than he did. That was one of the many reasons why he was so good at his job. It therefore struck him as deeply unjust that he was now being colluded upon in this way. First he was forced to think about his family, which he did not like; then he was forced to think about Park, which he liked even less. What next? Would Cyril appear like Banquo’s ghost and give him a telling-off?

God, what a vile thought. Avery dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to exorcise it. He wanted very badly to fling himself down on the bed and give over to self-pity.

Well, no; what he really wanted was to fling someone else down on the bed and give over to other feelings. Aside from a pair of obliging and flexible stewardesses in Bogotá, he’d had no company but his own for weeks. It was intolerable, verging on inhumane.

Under normal circumstances Avery would have no trouble finding a pretty somebody to remedy the situation, even with a wardrobe full of zip-neck jumpers. But Simon had put Avery so much on the back foot that he was now unable to imagine any of his affairs coming off. Besides, he couldn’t trust that a moment of passion wouldn’t find him with Simon’s name on his lips.

Bugger that for a game of soldiers. Avery would admit to a near-fatal streak of self-indulgence, but a sook he was not. He’d marked a gym near the Florijn with a sign advertising day passes. Time to flog himself through the Stations of the Cross.

The gym turned out to be a brightly-lit closet crammed with stationary bicycles. Avery had not been expecting the sort of Olympic-class facilities as at Base, but really, did the Dutch never tire of bicycling? Did they pedal in their sleep? He pictured it as he sweated through his third mile: a nation of stout pale legs gyring like the paddles of a windmill. No wonder the British calf was so feeble by comparison.

Avery bicycled until he’d reduced his machine to tormented noises and the girl at the counter was casting meaningful looks at the clock. Exercise had put him in fine, fierce spirits. Returning to the Florijn, he took a fierce shower that left the whole bathroom damp, cut himself with fierce shaving, and then sat at the rickety desk with his laptop, a chin plaster, and some fierce Dutch coffee. Warming his hands on the mug, he pulled up the Company file on Simon Segir.

As expected, it made for short reading. Segir had appeared out of nowhere seven years ago and established himself as a quiet but formidable player in the shadowier recesses of the game. He quickly earned a reputation for discretion, efficiency, and surgical precision. Blessing had called Segir a mercenary, but that wasn’t quite accurate. He chose his employers carefully, taking only short-term contracts and never working for the same employer twice.

Until the Grecos. They’d first crossed paths three years ago when Segir was hired by Cèsari, the _pater familias,_ to acquire extortionable information against a judge. Whatever the Grecos paid him, the sum must have been substantial—enough to secure Segir’s ongoing services as the Sicilian mafia’s very own consulting hacker.

Ah, but. What was it Simon said at breakfast? _I find myself with an unprecedented amount of red in my ledger._ Had he developed a taste for the high life that even his mafia salary couldn’t match?

Avery leaned back in his chair and considered Simon Segir. He didn’t fit the profile of a gambler; too methodical and suspicious. Nor was he the type to make risky investments. He was certainly well-dressed, but could a closet full of high-end knitwear really tip a man that far into debt? As a fellow cashmere aficionado, Avery thought not.

All of which indicated that the Grecos had some other leverage against Simon. He didn’t come across as someone living under threat, but that didn’t mean much given how damned difficult he was to read. The Grecos could be blackmailing him; they were Sicilian, after all. But what information could they possibly possess that the Company didn’t? Avery had never seen a file as spare as Simon’s. He was like rumor made flesh.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Simon had other reasons for working for the Grecos. _Manfredi knows me,_ he’d said—and well enough to know that Simon didn’t overnight. The level of intimacy this implied would go a long way toward explaining Simon’s unprecedented professional allegiance to the family.

Avery had never met Manfredi, but he knew the man by reputation. What he lacked in tactical brilliance he made up for with the sort of calculated violence that won wars by preventing anyone from daring to start them. He was also, like Avery, a goer—and, like Avery, he had no fixed preferences when it came to gender. Or any other human characteristic, for that matter. His file made for colorful reading. No wonder the ill-starred Accursia had sought comfort in the arms of cousin Pagolo.

So: assume Simon and Manfredi had an affair. Assume it ended badly—or, if it hadn’t ended, that Simon wanted out. Cèsari Greco’s favorite nephew and most trusted capo was not an easy man to shake off. If Simon really was a lone wolf, as seemed increasingly likely, he now found himself in need of a powerful ally and enough money to disappear.

Avery’s phone pinged. Picking it up, he saw a notification from a new app. The icon was a stylized rodent—mouse?—holding what looked like a flute.

The app opened of its own accord. It was a messaging interface designed to look like an old-school chatroom. As Avery watched, the blinking cursor began to type.

**[19:36] SimpleSimon**

You still have my umbrella.

Avery stared dumbly at his screen. Then he made a noise that was something between a laugh and a groan. _Oh, you fucker. You splendid little bastard_.

**[19:37] JohnDoe**

I’m holding it hostage.

**[19:37] SimpleSimon**

How brutish of you. I see I have no choice but to negotiate. What are your terms?

**[19:37] JohnDoe**

If I’m to play your mark, we ought to make the thing seem believable.

**[19:38] SimpleSimon**

What did you have in mind?

Avery thought for a moment.

**[19:39] JohnDoe**

If I really was your mark, how would you proceed?

The answer was immediate.

**[19:39] SimpleSimon**

I would march you straight to De Negen Straatjes and make you buy a pair of socks.

Avery laughed aloud.

**[19:40] JohnDoe**

Fine by me. See you tomorrow at noon at the corner of Restraat and Prinsengracht. I’ll be the man with the umbrella.

It gave Avery great pleasure to terminate the session before Simon could respond.

Avery spent the next several hours trying to figure out how Simon had hacked his phone. He fell asleep on his keyboard as dawn broke over the rooftops, no closer to answers, yet somehow in better spirits than he’d been in quite some time.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I have been reading a lot of James Bond;
> 
> 2) This could probably just be very AU Bond/Q fanfic with a pansexual Anglo-Indian Bond;
> 
> 3) Please don't yell at me about TGB, the next few chapters are tricky and I am working on them with diligence;
> 
> 4) I hope everyone is safe and well and not going slowly insane from quarantine boredom.


End file.
